She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. He did not have to. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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